


Might as Well Dance

by xrysomou



Category: All-American Rejects
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 15:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1231873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xrysomou/pseuds/xrysomou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“So,” Mike said. “This is nice. You, me, a truck. No-one else around. Lots of snow.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He’d been aiming to sound casual and maybe a bit suggestive, but Chris looked at him, one eyebrow raised.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Are you looking for somewhere to bury my body? ‘Cause it’s a pretty damn good location in winter, but lots of ramblers come through in summer. A dead body in the undergrowth could get awkward."</i>
</p><p>Mike, Chris and trucking on the Alaskan Ice Roads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Might as Well Dance

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction, FICTION being the key word. I don't know any of these people, I know even less about their lives and this is all a pack of lies.
> 
>  **A/N:** Written for the aar_capslock Christmas Challenge 2010. Melissa asked for fluff, pining pathetically and an AU. I tried my hardest somehow to jam all three into a fic about the boys driving trucks on the Alaskan ice roads. And then it got long. Don’t ask. I know it makes no sense. 
> 
> Title comes from a Polish proverb: If you’re going to walk over thin ice, you might as well dance.

The Dalton Highway: 500 miles of tundra and frozen lake running from north-west Canada up through Alaska to the Arctic Circle. 500 miles of Arctic winds, white-outs, constant sub-zero temperatures and no emergency services. It was dangerous to drive in a normal vehicle. Factor in an oversized hauler and six tons of steel pipe and you had yourself one amazing journey up to the north. At least, that was the way Mike liked to think of it. The terror of being swept away by a potential avalanche really got the adrenaline flowing. Nothing like a 500-mile death-trap to make you feel alive.

Mike couldn’t wait.

“Can I listen in when you tell your mom?” Tyson’s voice crackled tinnily over the loudspeaker. “I want to hear just how happy she is when she hears you’ll be spending Christmas two thousand miles away from her. And doing something that has a fair-to-middling chance of killing you. Why’d you take the Christmas shift, anyway? Someone else would have done it.”

“Because,” Mike stacked a load of sweaters and piled them onto his bed, “firstly, the overtime is excellent and secondly, it’s an ice road, man! I’ve always wanted to try it out! My boss actually _asked me_ if I _minded_ taking the Dalton road up to Deadhorse. It’s going to be so awesome!”

“I always knew there was something weird about you,” Tyson paused to gulp something – probably herbal tea, “Family Christmases suck, yeah. Another sweater from Auntie Mildred, another row over Christmas dinner. But when you’d rather face certain death –”

“It’s not certain death,” Mike interrupted, throwing socks over his shoulder and into the suitcase. “No-one’s died for at least six months.”

“Oh well, that’s okay, then. Where’s it you’re going again?”

“Deadhorse. It’s a city up north –”

“There’s an _actual_ place called _Deadhorse_?” Tyson sounded delighted. “I’ve changed my mind, can I come with you? Deadhorse, man. I wanna bring back postcards to show my mom!”

“Sure,” Mike said, grinning. “You can help me wrap six foot chains around the tyres in minus forty degrees.”

There was a pause. 

“On second thoughts…”

Tyson had been Mike’s friend since junior high. From being something of a jack-of-all-trades, Tyson had suddenly decided that law school sounded like a good idea, and was currently paying for the privilege through a mix of bit-part acting and modelling, in between kissing and rowing with his on-off-on-again boyfriend, Nick. For all he was always a good few hundred miles away from Mike because of work, he was still one of Mike’s oldest friends, and a good one. 

“I think you’re crazy.”

“I know.” Mike stood back and stared critically into his suitcase. The trip between the Fairfax depot and Deadhorse took two days if you pushed at it and another day’s rest before they gave you another load and sent you back. Mike had packed for a week, just in case. 

“Don’t die. I mean that, okay? And just in case you end up getting attacked by a rabid moose, I’m gonna say now that I love you and if you die, I will never speak to you again.”

“Thanks, Ty.”

“I gotta go. People want to slather me in make-up.”

“Okay. Have a good Christmas, dude.”

Hanging up, Mike stared down into his suitcase. Picking up his arctic gloves, he chucked them in and zipped up the case.

**

Mike’s mom was strangely philosophical about the whole thing.

“If you do anything stupid, I will disinherit you.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

“See if I don’t. Wrap up warm and do whatever people tell you.”

“I will.”

“And we’ll do presents when you get back.”

“Okay.”

“It’s an incentive to make sure you actually do come home. Keep yourself safe. I love you.”

“Love you too, Ma.”

**  
Fairbanks (pop. 35, 132)

Canada was a lot colder than Mike remembered. He’d only ever been up there twice to visit Toad and both times he’d returned with ridiculously woolly items of clothing and Canadiens de Montreal hockey tat. The Fairbanks depot was approximately a world and a half away from the lights and big city glamour of Montreal. Or anywhere, really. 

Mike stared up at the truck with growing apprehension. It wasn’t like he hadn’t driven bigger trucks. It was just that he wasn’t sure trucks this big were meant to go over anything as volatile as ice. Especially not with a load of rigging equipment strapped on the back. 

“She won’t go under,” said a voice behind him. “Not if you drive her properly.” 

He turned around. Standing there was the illegitimate child of Kenny from South Park and Frosty the Snowman – or, at least, it looked like it. Between the trucker boots and the serious arctic gear, the only clue that it was an actual human being that had spoken were the blinking eyes between the beanie and the scarf. 

The snowman held out a hand. “I’m Chris. This is my truck.”

Mike grinned and stuck out his own hand. “I’m Mike. Oh, hey, are you my pilot?”

“Er,” the scarf obscured most of Chris’ expression, but he sounded confused. “I sit shotgun and try to make sure you don’t fuck up and drive us off a four thousand foot drop. Is that what a pilot does?”

“Yeah .”

“Then I’m your pilot. C’mon. Let’s go.”

Mike clambered into the driver’s seat and waited as Chris threw in his bag before climbing up and slamming the door.

“Full speed ahead til we get to the Highway, rookie. And if you do anything stupid, I _will_ make you sit in the passenger seat while I drive. No-one drives my truck off the road.”

Mike pulled a face. “Yeah. Thanks. Any advice for someone who’s never driven over ice before?”

Chris yanked off his scarf. His grin had rather too many teeth. “If you hear a loud crack, pray.”

**  
With a thirty mile per hour speed limit, Mike had known the going would be slow. He didn’t really anticipate just _how_ slow that was until they’d been driving two hours and had barely done sixty miles. 

Of course, the threat of going through relatively thin ice into bone-chilling water tended to concentrate the mind. 

After another half an hour, Mike had relaxed enough to actually talk. Chris was slumped against the opposite window, looking out at the road ahead. Seeing as neither of them had spoken since they’d driven out of Fairbanks with a load of drills, Mike decided to be friendly and initiate conversation. 

“So,” he announced, selecting a topic at random. “You been doing this for long?”

“What?” Chris had shed a few layers when the truck started to warm up. Aside from being relieved that Chris was in fact human and not a snow-beast, Mike had noted with approval the load of tattoos and piercings. Chris seemed like good people, sartorially at least.

“Ice Road hauling. If they’re giving you rookies to herd, you’ve obviously been doing this a while.” 

Chris appeared to think a bit. “Twelve years. I was eighteen when I got my first truck. Built this one when I was twenty.”

“You _built_ this thing?” 

Chris shrugged. “Yeah. She was a load of scrap to start with. Took me five years and a fuckton of money, but I built her up.” 

“Awesome. Seems pretty sturdy,” Mike patted the dashboard somewhat gingerly. 

Chris hummed noncommittally and turned back to the road.

**

Two hours later, Mike was still having trouble coaxing any conversation out of Chris. This would have been awkward had Chris not had an inexhaustible supply of cassette tapes to fill up the silence.

“There’s no radio reception up where we’re going,” he had explained, shoving an unmarked tape into the player. “And even if there was, I wouldn’t have it on. Don’t want it messing with the emergency radio.” 

Since then, they’d got through the entire discography of Lynyrd Skynyrd and were slowly working their way through Radiohead when Chris squinted out of the window and sniffed.

“OK, Rookie, you’re gonna want to pull into the next lay-by you see.”

Mike risked a split-second glance away from the road to stare at him. “We’re not stopping?”

“Yep,” Chris said briskly, pulling his hat back on. “It’s going to get dark soon and you don’t want to drive in the dark on your first run.”

“It’s barely four, though,” Mike pointed out. “The Sun’s still up.”

Chris snorted, wrapping his scarf back around his neck. “Yeah. Let’s see how long that lasts. Seriously. Pull over. What’s the rush, anyway? It’s twenty miles to Coldfoot and I want to make it in one piece. We’ll get there tomorrow morning. Til then, let’s just find somewhere to eat while there _are_ places to eat on this fucking dirt track and catch a few hours’ sleep. We hit the ice tomorrow.”

“Ice. Right. Yeah,” in all his excitement about driving on the ice roads, Mike had forgotten that would actually be driving on an ice road. Somehow, it had seemed a much less intimidating when he’d been sitting in his apartment back in OK City. There was a sign for a service area up ahead. Mike sighed and indicated right. “One unhealthy snack coming up, boss.”

**

The service area was less of an actual service area than one out of a Stephen King novel, right down to the faded formica tables and the lights that flickered every time a truck went by. Still, Chris seemed to know his way around. He shed his multiple layers and dumped them in a booth before heading over to the counter to hug the very tall man behind it. Mike followed behind to order, catching the tail end of the conversation as he came over.

“…a white-out two days ago at Connection Rock. I’m just saying, man, you’ve picked the worst time to be up here.”

Chris shrugged. “It’s all work, dude.” He grinned, grabbing Mike by the shoulders. “And besides, I couldn’t let Rookie here leave the north without trying your cheesecake.”

The man laughed, looking at Mike with interest. “New meat?”

“The newest.”

“And he’s driving your truck?” The man looked sceptical. “You don’t let anybody drive your truck.”

“Yeah, well, the American economy’s changed that for me,” Chris said dryly. He poked Mike in the side. “What’cha want, Rookie?”

“I’ll have the green chili and a coke, please,” Mike said, handing over the menu. “I’m Mike, by the way,” he added as an afterthought. Better to introduce himself before he became Rookie permanently. 

“Hey, Mike, how’s it going? I’m Travie,” he grinned. “This is my place. The fool behind the grill is Gabe.”

“I heard that,” came from the kitchen. “Fuck you, McCoy.”

Travie reached over to grab Mike’s menu, casually flipping the bird in the direction of the kitchen. Mike was truly awed by the number of tattoos the guy had. It wasn’t as though Mike was a stranger to tats himself, but Travie’s artwork was something.

Chris chuckled. “Don’t let him overwork you, Gabe.”

There was a snort and another man – Gabe, presumably – appeared from the kitchen in overalls and an apron, leaning against the counter next to Travie. “The amount he pays me, I could probably make more money as a Vegas showgirl.” He elbowed Travie in the ribs. “I’m seriously considering it, y’know.”

“You’d look pretty in a pink frilly skirt,” agreed Travie. “But no dice. You signed a contract and I own your soul. And you volunteered to do the Christmas shift.”

“Fuck, I was temporarily deranged, ok? Don’t hold that moment of madness against me, man. Who’s this?” Gabe changed topic without a break, staring interestedly at Mike. 

“That’s Mike. He’s new,” Chris said absently, staring at the menu. “Fuck it. Usual for me, please, guys. And bring coffee. Lots of coffee.”

“All-American cheeseburger and a side of salad. You got it, boss. Gabe. You know what to do.”

Gabe rolled his eyes, pushed himself off the counter and ambled in the direction of the kitchen.

Mike stared around at the diner. He and Chris were the only customers there apart from an old dude in corner who was resolutely staring at his paper.

“Is it always this quiet up here?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “Don’t more truckers come through?”

Travie laughed and Chris grinned at him. “This is the last stop before the ice,” he explained. “After that, there’s no civilisation until you reach Coldfoot.”

“And it’s Christmas. That’s why it’s so quiet,” Travie added, “all the sane people are at home. It’s only you crazy fuckers who want be out up north this time of year."

“Oils rigs wait for no-one, McCoy,” Chris said unconcernedly. He and Travie started to banter and Mike let himself zone out for a moment. He stifled a yawn, feeling suddenly tired.

“The air’s thinner up here,” Chris said, shoving a mug of coffee into Mike’s hands. “You’ll get used to it.” 

“Order’s up!” bellowed Gabe from the kitchen, coming round to dump two plates on the counter before winking at Mike and vanishing again. 

“O-kay,” Travie peered at the order sheets. “One chili, one burger plus salad, coffee and coke makes ten dollars and forty-nine cents.”

“I’ll get it,” Mike said quickly. He didn’t want Chris to think he was a cheapskate.

Chris raised his eyebrows and picked up the plates. “Sure. Thanks, man.” He set off back to their booth.

Mike ambled down the bar to the till, fiddling with the notes in his wallet. Travie grinned at him.

“This your first time on the ice roads?”

“Yep.” Mike pulled a face, handing over the cash. “I’m scared as hell.”

Travie hummed thoughtfully. “You’re smarter than some. The ones who think it’s easy normally end up being the ones who go off the road.”

“That’s a comforting thought, thanks,” Mike said dryly.

“You’ll be fine, you’ve got Gaylor with you. He knows these roads better than just about anybody up here. Five cents change. You want a receipt?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Mike pocketed the change and slanted his eyes at Chris, who was eating his chili with a single-minded dedication. “Yeah, he seems pretty sound.”

Travie nodded. “He’s one of the best friends I’ve got. He’s also one of the most reliable truckers up here. You see anyone else up here on Christmas Eve, herding rookies along the ice?” He leaned against the counter, looking thoughtful as Mike tried his hardest not to be offended. “He’s also fuckin’ smoking.”

“What?” Mike jerked his head up so fast he heard his neck crack a little. Travie grinned at him.

“Hell yeah. I’d do him. Y’know, if it weren’t for this place. And Grumpy, back there,” he smirked a little in the direction of the kitchen.

“I will kill you in your sleep,” Gabe called back, but he sounded distracted.

“Yeah, yeah,” Travie muttered, staring speculatively at Mike. “You’re the type he normally goes for. Wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Oh,” Mike managed as his mind finally clicked into gear and he caught up with the conversation. “Um. I didn’t know he was…”

“He doesn’t like labels,” Travie shrugged. “But you’re not the first dude he’s had in the back of his truck, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“Hey Rookie,” Chris yelled from across the diner and Mike jumped. “Your food’s getting cold.”

Mike spared one last glance at Travie, who leered ridiculously, and went back to their booth. Chris raised his eyebrows as he sat down.

“What were you doing over there, composing sonnets?”

“Just talking,” Mike said lamely, and tried very hard to focus on his chili rather than the blue of Chris’ eyes. 

**

Half an hour later, Mike was ready to throw in the towel. Not only was Chris hot (as Travie had oh-so-helpfully pointed out), but once he got talking he was sharp, funny and liked practically everything that Mike did. Apart from a mild altercation over Mike’s preference for Dr. Pepper, which Chris couldn’t stand, they got on like a house on fire, and by the time Mike had finished his chili, he felt as though he’d known Chris for years.

He also felt like a fourteen-year-old girl with her first crush, but he was trying pretty hard not to think about that.

Chris shoved his plate away and stood up. 

“Back to the truck?” Mike asked, taking a final gulp of coffee. He glanced outside and blinked. In little over forty minutes, the sky had gone from being relatively bright to nearly black. He was abruptly glad they weren’t driving on.

Chris shook his head. “We’ve got another few hours before we have to turn in. Travie’s got a TV out back and there’s an episode of Iron Chef on in ten minutes.” He caught Mike grinning and grinned back. “I watch it. So sue me.”

Mike raised his hands in surrender. “I get it, man. A little culture’s a good thing.”

Chris snorted, scooping up his coat and scarf. “Fuck culture. I watch for the food.”

**

“Dude. Hey. Rookie,” someone was poking Mike’s shoulder. “Mike, man, wake up.”

“Wazzit?” Mike sat up and blearily tried to focus. He was half-lying, half-falling off the rickety sofa in Travie’s back room. He wasn’t sure at what point he’d fallen asleep (before or after the French toast casserole thing?) but judging by the crick in his neck and his bone-dry mouth, it had been a while ago. Someone had shoved a coat under his head.

“What time is it?” he asked, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“Ten,” Chris answered, shrugging into his coat and eyeing Mike speculatively. “Nice nap?”

Mike nodded and staggered to his feet. “Fuck, I’m tired.”

“Don’t worry about it. Couple more days up here and you’ll get used to it.” Chris nudged his shoulder. “Speed up, Rookie. The guys want to close up.”

“Damn straight,” Gabe agreed. He was sitting sideways in an armchair, his legs flung haphazardly over one arm of the chair. “I’ve got one more morning up at five and then three days off. Three days, no grease, no bacon, no dishes… It’s going to be awesome.” 

“Keep dreaming big, Gabe,” Chris said, patting his head and disappearing out the door. 

“You know I will,” Gabe called back, grinning at Mike before jerking his head and raising his eyebrows in Chris’ direction. “Yeah?”

Mike stared at him a moment before following Chris out into the snow. Chris’ friends were weird. 

Chris was waiting for him in front of the truck. “Front or back?” he announced a propos of absolutely nothing.

Mike blinked a little. Perhaps it was the blue of Chris’ eyes against his charcoal-grey beanie, but his synapses were having a bit of trouble connecting with each other. “What?” he asked belatedly.

“Sleeping arrangements, dude,” Chris said patiently. “You can have the bunk and I can rig up some kind of bed-thing with the front seat.”

Mike looked at the front seat speculatively. It didn’t exactly look comfortable. “Isn’t there any way we could, y’know, bunk up together?”

The words hit his brain just after they left his mouth, and Mike resisted the urge to kick himself hard. He thought about clarifying, but then decided that would just make it worse and clamped his mouth shut. There would be _no more talking_ for the rest of the evening.

Chris’ lips twitched. “Can’t fit two people up there, dude. Trust me, I’ve tried. So, what’s it going to be?” 

Mike sighed. “You know what, I’ll take the front seat,” he said. Somehow, sleeping in the front seat seemed the less creepy option after the ‘bunking up’ comment.

Chris nodded. “Sure. There’s a sleeping bag somewhere, and I’ve got loads of polar blankets stashed everywhere, so you should be pretty warm. Here, hang on,” he opened the truck door and hauled himself up until he was half-lying on the seat, helpfully giving Mike a view of his very nice ass in the process. 

_Godammit_ , Mike thought gloomily. Sometimes life just wasn’t fair. 

“Got it!” Chris yelled from inside the truck and Mike snapped out of his reverie. Chris clambered out of the truck and dropped to land beside Mike, grinning triumphantly. “One mattress! Well, kind of,” he amended as Mike peered inside the truck. 

The front seat had been let down as far as was humanly possible – that wasn’t very far, but it would be much better than trying to sleep semi-upright. Mike smiled.

“Thanks, dude,” he said and Chris grinned back.

“What can I say, I’m a regular handyman. But listen,” he leaned against the truck door, suddenly all business. “I reckon if we get some sleep now, we can be back on the road again by eight tomorrow.”

“Won’t it still be dark?” Mike asked. Given the choice, he’d much rather have driven on the ice roads in daylight. It just felt safer.

Chris nodded. “Yeah. It’ll be just about dawn. It’s better to drive into the daylight than into the dark, y’know?”

“That’s very deep,” Mike told him solemnly and Chris laughed.

“Shut up.” He opened the door to the truck again and hopped inside, clambering over the seats and disappearing into the back where his bunk was.

Mike followed suit. He climbed up into the truck and sat on his impromptu bed. He thought about kicking off his boots and then thought better of it. He’d rather have slightly cramped toes than frostbitten ones. He tugged his coat around him and settled down uncomfortably on the seat, already shivering a little. It was really fucking cold. 

“Hey,” Chris said suddenly from the back and Mike yelped as something flew through the air and landed on his stomach. “Sleeping bag. It’s one of those fancy polar ones, so you shouldn’t freeze. Blankets are under the seat if you want ‘em.”

“Thanks,” Mike called back. He unpacked the sleeping bag with stiff fingers and got himself into it as best he could. Grabbing a couple of blankets from under the seat, he piled them on top of himself and curled up in his cocoon. As an afterthought, he called back to Chris, “Night, man.”

“Night,” Chris replied. Mike heard him moving around the back. There was a brief intake of breath as Chris swung himself up into his bunk, and then the faint glow from the bunkside light went out.

**  
At first, he thought it was the cold that had woken him, but the more Mike thought about it, it had probably been the sound of his own teeth chattering. Blearily, he opened his eyes, still only half-awake, and looked out of the window. At least, he looked towards where he thought the window was. It was impossible to see.

“What,” he muttered, and reached out a gloved hand to wipe at the window pane.

“Snow, dude,” came Chris’ voice out of the darkness. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Ok,” Mike agreed sleepily and lay back down. There was an icy draught coming through a crack in the door, and Mike shivered. He buried his head under the blankets, curled himself up as best as he could and, much to his own surprise, dropped off almost instantly.

**  
The next time Mike woke up, it was to the sound of his door opening.

“Wake up, dude,” Chris said, giving Mike a shake for good measure. 

“’m up,” Mike said, sitting up and wincing as the cold hit him head-on. 

“Shit-load of snow,” Chris said tersely. “Grab a shovel.”

Mike nodded and disentangled himself from the sleeping bag, shoving it, blankets and all, under his seat. Gingerly, he stuck a foot out of the open door, testing the step for ice. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to slip and fall off the truck entirely, Mike braced himself and jumped down from the truck.

The force of the cold made him recoil. “Holy fuck,” he gasped, resisting the temptation to hop back into the truck and bury himself in blankets.

“All good?” Chris materialised beside him, wrapped back up in his multiple layers. He handed Mike a shovel and then walked off round the back of the truck. “Start with the wheels,” he called back.

Mike looked at the truck. The wheels were barely visible under the snow. He sighed, gripped his shovel and started to dig at the front one.

**

It took them the best part of half an hour, but they managed to dig the truck out of the snow. By then, Mike was starting to sweat a little under his jacket – polar gear apparently wasn’t made for serious physical exertion. And, ridiculously, he was exhausted. 

He stashed his shovel under the driver’s seat and then hopped up into the truck, resisting the temptation to lean his head against the steering wheel. The asphalt roads would soon stop and Mike needed to be at all faculties running by the time he reached the ice.

“Sorry if I was a dick earlier. I’m shit at mornings. You feeling okay?” Chris asked. He was already sitting shotgun, watching Mike speculatively. 

“I’m good,” Mike said as robustly as he could. 

Chris narrowed his eyes. “Sure. You look it. How about you take a break and I drive for a while.”

Despite the phrasing, it wasn’t a question. Mike could feel his hackles start to rise. So he hadn’t driven on the ice before – that didn’t mean he was some pansy-ass weakling who needed a nap before every goddamn journey.

“I’m fine,” he said stubbornly. “Seriously. I can drive.” 

“I know you can,” Chris answered, opening his door and jumping down to the ground. Mike stared at his empty seat for a moment before following suit, feeling more tired and bad-tempered by the minute.

Chris was standing by his door, waiting for him to get out. Mike sighed. “Look, man, I know I’m new at this, but I learn fast and –”

Chris cut him off. “You’re tired, the air’s only going to get thinner and it won’t get light for another hour. I know you can drive. You wouldn’t be up here otherwise. But the ice roads are tricky fuckers and I have no idea what the conditions are like up ahead. And hey, much as I love this truck, you seem like a good guy and I really, really don’t want to have to go back to my boss or your mom and tell them that there’s been an accident and you won’t be coming home for New Year.” He paused, looking a little sheepish. “And I really fucking hate speeches, so will you please get in the goddamn truck and let me drive for a while?”

Feeling stupid, Mike nodded and walked round to the passenger seat. He hopped in and buckled himself up. Chris jumped up into the driver’s seat, grinning at him. 

“I’ll even let you nap until we reach the ice. See what a nice guy I can be when you do what I say?”

Mike smiled, feeling less of an idiot than before. “Yeah, you’re right. I could do with a nap. Man, this is stupid.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Chris turned the key in the ignition and switched on the lights. They both blinked as the snow around them flared bright white. “The first time I was up here, I got altitude sickness. Puked the whole way to Deadhorse and then nearly rammed into another truck. Trust me, Rookie, you’re doing fine. Reckon you can hold off breakfast until Coldfoot?”

“Sure,” Mike said, settling back into his seat and pulling the beanie over his eyes. “Whatever you say, dude.”

**  
 _Coldfoot (pop. 13)_

Mike had seen some pretty small towns in his life – hell, he came from Edmond and that wasn’t exactly the hugest place in the world – but Coldfoot took the biscuit.

“This is not a town,” he told Chris over the rim of his coffee cup. “I’ve seen towns. This is… this is…” he paused for thought, staring out of the window of Coldfoot’s one restaurant at the highway. “A truck stop. A truck stop with a big sign.”

Chris nodded. “Technically, it’s a CDP. Census-designated place,” he clarified when Mike looked blank. “An unofficial, unincorporated community categorised officially as a town for data collection purposes. What?” he asked, grinning when Mike stared. “I read.”

Mike blinked at him. “Evidently.” He searched around for a conversation topic that had nothing to do with ice, trucking, or any combination of the two. Mike prided himself on being an all-round interesting person with stuff to say. Something about Chris just made all his brain functions shut down in favour of going, “Your eyes are so _blue_ ” on repeat. “So,” he started, selecting a topic at random. “Do you stay up north permanently or am I gonna see you on the circuit down south sometime?”

He paused and took a moment to hope that it hadn’t sounded as much like a come-on has it had in his head. Then, after wondering whether he should add something bland and innocuous to make it seem _less_ like a come-on, Mike decided to give up. Chris was funny, sharp, incredibly easy on the eyes, and generally the sort of person Mike would be happy to get to know better… preferably with dates and kissing and possibly energetic sex.

Mike was an unashamed sap. 

“Give me a call if you’re ever in OK City,” he said, figuring that he might as well lay his cards on the table. “We could meet up sometime.”

“Awesome,” Chris said without looking up from his danish. “My folks live round that way. I’ll let you know when I’m next in town.”

Mike thought for a moment. That wasn’t precisely the reaction he’d been going for, but perhaps he hadn’t made himself clear. “We could go out maybe,” he tried again. “Get something to eat.”

“Sure,” Chris took a gulp of coffee. “There’s a really good steakhouse off Portland Avenue that I’ve wanted to try for ages. You know it?”

“No?”

“It’s good. It’s called Benny’s, or something, I can’t remember. You should try it out. Fuck,” Chris pulled a face and looked down at his coffee cup sadly. “The coffee gets worse every time I come up here.” He sighed, put the cup down and looked expectantly across the table at Mike. “You done?”

“Um?” Mike wasn’t entirely sure what was going on. “Yes?”

“Cool.” Chris stood up, glared a final time at the coffee and yanked his beanie back on his head. “Let’s go, Rookie. Ice roads to drive!”

Zipping up his coat, he strode briskly out of the restaurant. Mike, still sitting in his seat, felt a bit deflated. Still, it wasn’t an outright rejection.

**

“Okay…we’re okay… this is awesome… and we’re not dead…” Mike took a deep breath and tried to relax his death-grip on the steering wheel. They’d been driving over ice for a little over five minutes, but he still wasn’t sure he was totally comfortable with it.

Chris, the fucker, looked amused. “We’re not dead, dude. Probably because you’re doing five miles an hour. I thought you wanted to drive on the ice?”

“I do,” Mike stared fixedly out at the road. He wasn’t entirely sure that the ice wouldn’t crack under them out of spite. “It’s great, just… really fucking terrifying.”

“I hear you,” Chris leaned forward and fiddled a little with the emergency radio. “You’ll get used to it. I could turn the radio on if it’d calm you down, but it might fuck with the emergency broadcast, and that would suck if we needed it–“

“Do _not_ fucking say things like that,” Mike ordered sternly, eyes still locked on the road ahead. “Ever. Not while we’re out on goddamn _ice_. And definitely not while I’m driving on it.”

Chris laughed. “Just fucking with you. The radio stays off. But you know what would be really awesome? If we could reach Deadhorse by, say, next year. We got two hundred miles to drive and if you stick to five mph all the way, it’s going to get tedious really fast.”

Mike grinned and pressed a little harder on the gas. “I’m speeding up!”

“To ten miles an hour?”

“Don’t push me. Ice, man, _ice_.”

Chris snorted. “Don’t worry, Rookie, I won’t push you into anything you don’t want to do.” He paused. “And anyway, it’s December. The ice is pretty solid right now. It’s May you gotta watch out for - it gets a bit warmer and the ice cracks really easily –“

“Oh God, shut up, shut up, shut up…”

**

It took Mike maybe half an hour to relax, but once reassured that the road wouldn’t just give way underneath them, he felt calm enough to engage in conversation. Chris had finally managed to coax Mike up to thirty miles an hour. Mike still felt this was stupidly fast to go on a road that could kill them, but given the choice between driving faster and another night sleeping in the truck, he’d decided the former was more appealing.

At least Deadhorse would have hotels with actual beds and central heating. The thought of warmth and proper sleep was a real incentive. Mike wasn’t feeling as bad as he had been in the morning, but he was pretty sure he could sleep easily given the opportunity. He risked a split-second glance away from the road at Chris and felt a little guilty. Unlike Mike, Chris hadn’t slept since they left Coldfoot. He’d also kept up a running monologue about absolutely nothing to calm Mike down once they reached the ice, and, as used as he must have been to the altitude, he looked exhausted. 

Gingerly, Mike took one hand off the wheel and prodded Chris’ shoulder. “Dude?”

“What?” 

“You wanna take a nap or something? You look kinda wrecked. I can always yell if something goes wrong.”

Chris rubbed at the shadows under his eyes. “Nah, man. Rule of thumb. No sleeping when new guys are driving my truck. It’s not just you, man,” he hurried to clarify, “I kid around, but so much shit can go wrong up here, it’s not worth the risk. And anyway,” he added, smiling, “You rookies are all the same. You make me like you, sweet-talk me into letting you drive my truck and then bam, you drive us off an incline. Not cool.” 

“Okay, man, whatever you want,” Mike said, trying simultaneously to keep them on the road and not read far too much into every little thing Chris said.

Chris stretched out in the passenger seat. “It’s your job to keep me awake. You gotta be more interesting. Talk a bit.”

“If I talk, I won’t be concentrating on the road,” Mike pointed out.

Chris leaned forward to peer through the windscreen. “Trust me, Rookie, there are no surprises coming up for at least fifteen minutes. Tell me something interesting.”

“Um, okay,” Mike squinted around the next bend in the road. “I… am from Oklahoma. Grew up in Edmond, but I moved to OK City when I was nineteen –“

“Dude, that’s not ‘something interesting’, that’s a biography. Tell me, I dunno, something you like doing. What do you do for fun? Or don’t you have fun?”

Mike paused. He wasn’t sure if that had been an innuendo or not. Maybe his subconscious had conjured it up as part of some serious wish-gratification. Anyway, he was too busy trying to make sure they didn’t tumble off the road to flirt seriously. “Um, okay. I… ah…play guitar?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. My friends and I had a band back in high school. Didn’t go very far, though. All our drummers kept leaving. Eventually, we gave up and got normal jobs.”

Chris looked interested. “I play the drums.”

“Yeah? Awesome! Ty, Nick and I have a lame-ass band still going – you should come and jam with us sometime.” Mike made a mental note never to use ‘jam’ again. It worked well on Tyson, but it just made Mike sound like his grandpa.

“Sounds like fun so long as your friends know some Lynyrd Skynyrd. And I’m kinda fully-booked, work-wise, for the next six months. Rain-check on the jamming thing?”

“Oh, um. Okay. Sure.” Mike frowned at the road in front of him.

Perhaps his flirting mechanism was broken.

**

_Atigun Pass_

“Mike. Mike, look out the window.”

“No chance. Have you seen that fucking drop?” Mike pressed himself back further into the seat, as though the cliff-side would suddenly fall away just to spite him.

“Seriously, man, it’s amazing. Come on,” Chris nudged his shoulder.

Before he’d set off, Mike had read about the Atigun Pass over the Brooks mountain range in one of the many, many books he’d bought in preparation for his trip. The guidebooks had described the views from the top as breathtaking – as long as you could ignore the 4700 foot drop and the already-precarious guardrails mangled and twisted by avalanches and the occasional skidding truck. 

Mike wasn’t a fan of heights, and the Atigun Pass took ‘height’ to a new level. Worse, the wind was much brisker up in the mountains than it had been on the flat, and every so often, Chris had to get out of the truck to check the pipes strapped to the hauler. The road, although mercifully gravel, was narrow, rough and uncompromising and Mike had spent most of the time on the way up dreading that they’d meet another truck. Chris alternately reassured him and terrified him by anticipating the surprises up ahead and grumbling about the massive chunks of road torn away by the last ice-storm.

And now, as they clawed their way up the 12% incline, bare metres away from the edge of the road, Chris was trying to get Mike to admire the scenery.

He was definitely insane. Hot, but insane.

“I’m not kidding, you have to look or you’re going to miss it,” Chris was saying, jabbing Mike more insistently in the shoulder. 

Mike turned minutely to glare at him. “Dude. We are _so nearly_ at the top of this godforsaken climb and I would love it if we didn’t tumble over the edge and plunge 4000 feet to evil, icy oblivion-”

“We’re not going to plunge to icy oblivion,” Chris said patiently, “because we’re already at the top. I’m serious. Kill the engine and take a look.”

Mike peered through the windscreen and frowned. “We can’t be at the top yet. I can still see a gradient.”

Chris shook his head. “Optical illusion, dude. This is the highest we go. There’s an awesome view to your right. Why don’t you take a look?”  
Mike sighed. “Okay. But if this turns out to be a stupid idea and we go rolling down the side of the mountain, then I’m blaming you.”

“If we roll down the side of the mountain, we’ll die,” Chris said cheerfully. “So you can’t blame me. Quit fucking around, dude, you’ll miss it.”

Mike hit the brakes and switched off the engine, terrified that they would start uncontrollably rolling backwards down the slope. They didn’t. Mike started to breathe again and, with another prod of Chris’ finger, looked to his right.

The mountain range fell away into deep valleys covered in a glittering blanket of snow and ice. Storm clouds were gathering over the peaks on the other side, the weak afternoon sun turning them a multitude of colours ranging from slate grey to bruised purple to an icy pale blue. Mike had never thought of himself as a poet, but he thought he could write poetry about that view.

“Wow,” he said softly. Behind him, Chris chuckled.

“See? There are perks to this job.”

Mike turned to grin at him. “Yeah, there are.”

Chris paused for a moment and then grinned, apparently back to business. “Okay then. Let’s get going, Rookie. It’s all downhill from here to Deadhorse.”

**

After the excitement of the Atigun Pass, the road through to Deadhorse was comparatively boring. Chris took the wheel again on his own insistence, which left Mike free to stare out over the flatlands. The landscape remained largely the same as the afternoon wore on – flat, white and suddenly glittering with occasional patches of sunlight – with little variation: they passed Galbraith Lake (iced over, white with snow and covered with a damp mist), the Kuparuk River (frozen, more snow) and Oil Spill Hill (yet more snow). After another three hours of snow and tundra with no distractions, Mike would almost have been glad of another run at Atigun. 

They drove through Happy Valley just as darkness was starting to fall again. The mere sight of the sign made Mike feel more cheerful. They had less than a hundred miles to go until they reached Deadhorse, food and central heating. Mike stared sidelong at Chris, who hadn’t been particularly talkative since they got back down to the flatlands. Feeling that the silence was growing a bit awkward, Mike decided to make conversation – well, try and flirt - once again.

“So,” he said. “This is nice. You, me, a truck. No-one else around. Lots of snow.”

He’d been aiming to sound casual and maybe a bit suggestive, but Chris looked at him, one eyebrow raised.

“Are you looking for somewhere to bury my body? ‘Cause it’s a pretty damn good location in winter, but lots of ramblers come through in summer. A dead body in the undergrowth could get awkward. You okay?” he asked as Mike’s face fell.

Mike tried for a smile. “Yeah, yeah. You just wrecked my plans to murder you, but I’m sure I can think of something else.” 

Maybe he should just quit flirting for good, he thought glumly to himself. Or maybe he should go back to Oklahoma and try asking out boys who were less oblivious. 

As they rolled out of Happy Valley and started following the Trans-Alaska pipeline, Mike settled back in his seat in a black mood.

**

_Deadhorse (pop. 25)_

“Well, man, you did it,” Chris said grinning as they drove into Deadhorse a couple of hours later. “You got here. You’re officially an ice-road trucker. How’re you feelin’?”

“Honestly?” Mike turned the truck through the depot gates. “Tired. I think my supply of excitement ran out when we had to change the snow chains for the sixth time.”

Chris grimaced. “Yeah.” The last hour of their journey had mainly consisted of taking the snow chains off the tires, cleaning them of half-frozen slush and putting them back on again. “Oh hey, a welcome committee.”

A man in fluorescent yellow overalls was waving a clipboard at them from the pedestrian area. Mike obligingly slowed to a halt and the man jogged over. His face was almost entirely obscured by a massive woolly hat, and when Mike rolled down the window, he remembered why. The weather was fucking bitter.

“Who’re you?” the man yelled over the sound of the other trucks before peering round Mike and nodding. “Hey, Gaylor. What’s this?”

“Six tons of insulated steel piping for the line and a rookie driver who’s just finished his first drive.” Chris clapped Mike on the shoulder and Mike tried manfully to feel less glum. It wasn’t the end of the world if Chris didn’t think Mike was as awesome as Mike thought Chris was.

“Hi,” he said, smiling at the man, who smiled a little distractedly and shoved the clipboard at him.

“You’re gonna need to sign these, and these, and these. Hand them into the office once you’re done.”

“Okay,” Mike said and the man walked off. 

The forms were nothing unusual. Mike had signed ones just like them for jobs down south, and it took him less than five minutes to get them done. Reattaching the pen to the clipboard, he waved it at Chris.

“D’you know where the office is?”

“Oh, hey, don’t worry. I’ll take ‘em.” Chris yanked his hat back on and opened the door. Mike cringed as freezing Arctic wind blasted into the truck. “I need to check in, anyway.”

With that, he hopped down to the ground and wandered off into the darkness. 

Mike started to gather up the little stuff he’d brought with him. It was Chris’ truck after all and he wanted to find somewhere to eat before he collapsed in one of the rigging hotels. Dragging his bag and coat out from under his seat, he insulated himself from the cold as best he could and opened the door. 

“H-holy fuck,” he gasped, tugging his bag down from the truck and hopping up and down next to it. Chris was nowhere in sight. Mike collared a passing trucker and got the name and whereabouts of a hotel that served food, and started to walk. Chris probably had other shit to do and people to see. Mike wasn’t going to be a masochist and hang around.

He didn’t get very far. Bringing a bag on wheels to a land of slushy ice probably hadn’t been the best idea.

“Rookie! Hey, hey, Mike!” 

Mike turned round. Chris was running towards him, slipping a little on the ice. He almost skidded into Mike but managed to stop just in time.

“Hey, man, where’re you going?” he asked panting a little. He was still grinning in that unfairly attractive way, the bastard, Mike thought sourly.

He shrugged. “Thought I might go find a hotel. Maybe eat something before I pass out.”

“Good plan. But you’re going the wrong way. All the hotels are actually over there. That direction.” Chris jerked a thumb behind him. “And anyway,” he looked a little puzzled. “You were gonna go without saying goodbye? That’s just harsh, man. We were road buddies! Not cool.”

Mike sighed. “Yeah, well, I guessed you had other stuff to do, and I’m tired, so… y’know. Thought I’d turn in for the evening.”

Chris nodded. “Sure. Air still getting to you, huh? Okay. Well. This was fun – and hey, congratulations, man.” He turned around to leave and then appeared to think of something. “Oh, and hey, before you go, you wanna go out sometime for a drink? Just you and me?”

Mike stopped trying to clear the slush out of the wheels of his bag and stared at him. “What?”

Chris grinned at him appealingly. “Wanna go on a date? ‘Cause you’re funny and awesome and you’ll be an amazing trucker up here when ice doesn’t scare you so much –”

“No, _what_?” Mike flung his bag down and glared at him. “You can’t do this.”

“Oh.” Chris’ face fell. “Sure, man, you could have just said no –”

“No, shut up,” Mike stalked over to him and jabbed a finger in his ribs. “Look, I made passes at you the entire way up this goddamn highway and _you didn’t say anything_. I asked you out, like, _twice_! I have made more innuendos in the last two days than I have in the last year! Okay, some were accidental, but most of the time I was trying really, really hard to get some kind of positive response out of you. And nothing! And now, you just _breeze in_ , ‘Hey, Mike, wanna go on a date?’”

There was a moment of silence.

Chris tugged at his scarf, looking sheepish. “Um. Okay. Feel better?”

Mike nodded stiffly.

“Good. Okay, this is going to sound stupid, but I had no idea you were hitting on me. Seriously, man,” he smiled at Mike, who was still trying to maintain an aura of aloofness. Unless you use the word ‘date’ in a sentence, it’s gonna go right over my head, especially when I’m on the road. Look, I’m really sorry. And I would fucking _love_ to go on a date with you. So would you put me out of my misery and give me an answer?”

Mike glared at him. “Of course I want to date you, you moron.”

Chris’ grin was blinding. He slung an arm around Mike’s shoulders and towed him in the direction of the hotel. “Then that’s done. What d’you say to a first date now? Okay, the restaurants up here aren’t exactly world class, but they do a decent steak –” He broke off as Mike turned his head and pulled him in for a kiss. 

He stared at Mike when they broke apart, breathing hard. “Oh. Okay. Wow. I am keeping you _forever_.”

Mike chuckled. “You say that now…”

“Yeah, I do. But listen,” Chris’ expression turned serious. “I wasn’t kidding about the lack of leisure time. I’m up here a lot, like, most of the year, and I’m guessing you’re gonna be down south –”

“I might want to transfer up here,” Mike interrupted, adding when Chris looked sceptical. “No, really. Not just because of, well, this, either; my boss has been hinting about it for ages, and if I get the chance I’ll take it. And in the meantime, you give me your number, I’ll give you mine…”

Chris laughed. “I’ll write it in permanent marker on your head. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

They had reached the hotel door. Mike tugged Chris inside. “But if it’s on my head then I won’t be able to read it,” he pointed out.

“I’ll write it on your arm then. Quit fussing. C’mon, Rookie, let’s go get some food.”

**


End file.
